


The Birthday Offer Affair

by id_ten_it



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Backstory, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: Napoleon and Illya are in England, saving the world again. Illya's life in the USSR comes in handy, which is lucky since Napoleon is rather smitten at the time.





	The Birthday Offer Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Clearing out the archives of unposted fics, so this was first written a good five years ago. It has been given a brief polish but as always, let me know if you notice anything.

As per the instructions each man received stepping through their doors, they met at Mr. Waverly‘s office at 9am.

“Gentlemen.” The man stood, nodding to them.

Illya straightened, hands rigidly by his side and his voice relapsing to a curt automation, “Sir.”

It was covered easily by Napoleons relaxed, gregarious reply, “Yessir?”

They all sat, two of them lighting up. Once there was a suitable wreath of smoke, Waverly spoke again. “It’s a while since I sent you out on something, isn’t it? I’ve found the perfect little excursion for you. It’s in Eastern Europe; you’ll be going to London first, looking for someone calling himself John Holmes.” Napoleon snorted, causing Waverly to smile, “I appreciate the reference as well as you, Mr. Solo…” he would probably have continued further had Illya not asked, archly, “Is the allusion important?” Napoleon eyed him. “You have heard of Sherlock Holmes, have you not? And his companion, Dr John Watson?”

There was a pause then Illya nodded, “A detective. Good stories, I seem to remember, if a little simple. However, what is he up to?”

 

  
Waverly became serious again, if he had ever stopped being so. “He is into arms trafficking. Also, I suspect, human trafficking. We are talking funding wars, providing both sides with the arms, and then selling men to both sides to fight. His business is warmongering, in short.” Napoleon looked appalled. He tightened his mouth and then sought to clarify, “This man Holmes is funding wars? Starting them then making money out of both sides?”

Waverly nodded, “We have little to pick him up on. There are suggestions even he could be a front. Which is why I need you two over there, try and find him and gather enough evidence to bag him before you take him in.”

Napoleon shrugged, “It doesn’t sound overly complicated, yet. Do we know if he lives with his cache?”

Waverly shook his head, “As far as we can find out, he lives on the same property, but well away from, the weaponry. Which means, if you had to, you could blow him up and get out of there alive.” He raised a bushy eyebrow, “Not that I’d want you to.”

There was a pause then Illya said his second sentence of the day, “He must be a fair way out of London, for that to be the case?”

Waverly stood and shunted the files closer. They picked them up and made to leave. “He is.” Waverly pitched his voice for Illya alone, “He is indeed. There will be no big bash for Napoleons birthday this year, but I like my office as tidy as it is, you see.”

Illya nodded and smiled, following his partner down the hall.

 

Two days later, all files read and the appropriate paper-work copied and filed, they called a taxi- Napoleon standing outside for about five seconds always had a taxi ready- and flopped back in the back seats, smiling to each other. “A nice break, if a little inclined to bad weather.” Illya was sure there would be rain, no matter what season they were going to, but a mission was a mission, after all. Napoleon grinned, “Did it really rain all four years you were in England?”

Illya nodded glumly, “It never stopped. I started to grow mould in my hair…it turned green.” They chuckled a little together as Napoleon added, “That may have just been what your neighbour was putting in the shampoo.”

 

The taxi driver kicked them out at their terminal, they checked in and took their seats, window for Illya, allowing Napoleon better leg room and a better view of the cleavage of their very polite stewardess. Illya, typically, grunted when he pointed this out and turned back to his paper, scribbling on it with a red pen. Napoleon, after a while, was twitchy, trying to talk. Most of the talk seemed to revolve around his plans for his birthday.

“Of course, there’ll really only be us two, but I’m sure we can at least double that number. Especially” he added threateningly, “If you’ll wear what I tell you and smile a bit more.”

Illya fixed him with a smile more suited to great white sharks and politely suggested Napoleon jump out of the plane. Thankfully the stewardess plied them with food at that moment and they were suitably distracted. A little later, checking for eavesdroppers, Illya suggested they plan their next few moves.

 

“We’ll have to get in, at least one of us, try and make friends and also try and get access to the man himself.” Napoleon looked doubtful. “I hate acting as a servant. Also, one of us should stay free, tracing his frequent visitors.”

Illya sighed dramatically and adopted an English accent which was an incredibly good impersonation of an old family servant down on his luck, “Which one of us’ll ‘ave ter be making sacrifices, guv’ner.” And drew his fringe down onto his forehead, squinting up at Napoleon.

“Looks like you’re it.” The man nodded, holding out a hand. Illya pretended to spit on his before shaking it. “We’ll have to arrange some scheds, or a drop point. I don’t know how long I’ll be stuck out the back before I’m allowed in.”

Napoleon shrugged, “When we get there, you take a good scout around and let me know- I’ll be listening for you. If you can’t do that, we’ll have to rely on a loose brick or something.”

 

He looked over but Illya, meal consumed, was asleep, head on one side, neck exposed. Napoleon shrugged and sat back to read. They had the plan worked out anyway, the finer details meticulously planned before they even left. But it was nice to imagine they were allowed some freedom. As soon as the plane started descending Illya was awake, peering out the window, checking through their papers and settling back into his seat, looking round suspiciously at the beaming stewardess handing out boiled sweets. He took two, popping one in his mouth and saving the other, causing Napoleon to grin. “Old habits die hard?” he questioned, preparing to land as well.

Illya nodded, peering around at the cabin, “Indeed. I’d better drive us out of here.” Napoleon nodded, but he sounded grumpy, “Wouldn’t do for a piece of scum like you to have a car, would it?”

Illya shrugged, “In a chauffeurs uniform it would look very good.” He touched a cap lightly, secreted in his bag, “Don’t you think? I’ll meet you at the car.”

 

Smiling he pushed past his partner, wriggling into the queue that had formed to exit the just-landed plane. Napoleon watched as the small blonde head ducked politely at the stewardess and retreated to the car park, claiming a perfectly suitable, though slightly old, Aston Martin and driving it closer. He didn’t see the last few movements as he also stood to leave, smiling lasciviously at the stewardess and making his leisurely way to the baggage carousel. There appeared to be no one watching him, which was nice, and he was undertaking a second scan of the area, more thoroughly, when his shoulders prickled and he turned his head slightly.

 

Illya, resembling nothing more than a deferring, old world driver, peaked cap sitting at a slight angle on his head, shoulders lightly hunched, was peering round, though Napoleon knew he’d spotted him at first glance. He waited for the man to come closer before turning back to the bags. Each was looked at by both men before they were picked up. No need to be blown up on arrival.

 

Placing them all on his trolley, Illya led the way to the car, piling the bags in the boot and dropping into the driver’s seat. “It’s clean.” He murmured, allowing Napoleon to settle in and wave to a very pretty lady nearby. She blushed and Illya accelerated as they left the slow zone, picking up speed and heading out of town.

 

“We should make it all the way out tonight, despite the later start.” Napoleon was eager to get the mission started. After all, the sooner they started, the sooner they stopped.

Illya grunted and flicked the windscreen-wipers on their lowest setting. “Told you it would rain.” He muttered, maneuvering a round-about with ease and finally settling down to eating up the miles on a sparsely-frequented by-road. “What shall I get you for your birthday? You commented on finding two girls, so I suppose that particular present is denied as an easy way out…”

Napoleon laughed, “I can’t imagine you organizing one girl for said birthday, Illya, even if I hadn’t promised to take care of that.”

Illya raised an eyebrow but didn’t glance at him, “You are forgetting, of course, there are places you can…come to an agreement at very easily.”

There was silence, Napoleon felling slightly shocked. Was all he worth a quick phone call and some money?

“But, of course, that would be a last resort.” Illya shrugged, “Noting your predilection for involving us in at least one formal evening while away, there is a suit packed. I’m sure I could arrange something without help.”

 

Napoleon brightened considerably. His partner wasn’t exactly known for dressing up and talking, even vaguely politely, to strange women. To have offered to dress up and be his most charming, flattering self….It would have been an interesting night.

“Maybe I will take you up on that offer, Illya. It would do you good, stop those skills getting rusty.”

Illya snorted and eased up on the accelerator, “With you around, those skills are unnecessary, my friend.”

 

Of course, they followed this line of argument for a pleasant half hour or so, until Napoleon sighed, frustrated. “I hate having to go through all these little villages. Slows us right down, and it’s taking ages.” Illya shrugged, “It’s England. You should know what to expect. Shall we stop at the next but one? Get ourselves some more food?”

 

Napoleon waggled his eyebrows, “It’s almost dark, Illya. We could get something other than food, too.” Illya laughed, suppressed as he said, “You complain of me worrying only about my stomach!”

“Well, you do, you know.” Napoleon was mildly taken aback by Illya laughing, fair hair brushing his shoulders and his cap almost falling off. He winced at his un-witty reply but Illya was busy slowing for a horse and then there were only a few corners and they were pulling up. “The local pub. How imaginative.”

Illya raised one shoulder. “It’s where everyone’ll be. And there’ll be food and a warm bed. Each.” It was a compelling argument and Napoleon waited for Illya to open his door, stepping briskly into the warmth.

Illya waited a little, locking the doors and giving the front area of the building a scout before stepping into the mug as well. He quickly made out the corner where men more his own station sat and, slipping his hat into his belt, grabbed a beer and joined them.

 

Napoleon was more interested in the bar-maid, but also set about befriending the better- dressed, more educated sounding lot. They talked freely and he let them do so for longer before he casually asked about any major land- owners in the area.

“I’m so interested in the idea.” He admitted, looking a little embarrassed as he emphasized his own accent. Of course this earned him plenty of information and he started sifting through it for what he hadn’t already read.

 

The long drive to wherever they were seemed to have strained the relationship, if Illya was anything to go by. “Bloody yanks.”  He was complaining, to a couple of nearby men, “He says to me, all ‘igh and mighty, like, “So when are we gunner be seeing the queen, then?’” His attempt at an American accent being put on by a local had the others in fits of laughter, “and don’t believe me when I says she’s away up in the boarder. Reckons we coulda driven up there terday, and is all sick about havin ter slow down for the villages.”

Billy, the under-chef at Holmes’ place, leaned forwards, “So what’re ya goin ter do, then?”

Illya shrugged, “I ain’t sticking round with him, that’s a cert. I’m stuck up ‘ere, though, wivvout a job or money, ain’t I.” He turned despondent blue eyes on Billy, “You know of anyone round ‘ere could do with a man ter do anyfing?”

 

Conveniently, Holmes’ servant population had been thinned out a little before they arrived- all the men were still around, just otherwise engaged. Billy nodded, “Aye. There’s room fer a butler, another kitchen hand, a gardener, a secretary….I’ll talk ter the boss, if you like.” Illya nodded and provided him with a beer or two, “I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”

Billy downed the last of the beer as the landlord shunted them all out for closing, “I’ll see you ‘ere termorrer, yeah?” Illya nodded, “Unless ‘is lordship drags me off somewhere. Then yer’d better leave a message- Ian, yer remember?” Billy shook his hand and Illya waited till his new found friends were out of sight before moving upstairs, meeting Napoleon in his, larger, room.

 

“Learn anything?” Napoleon shrugged, “Holmes is a well liked eccentric. He’s Russian, sounds like a rags to riches story, as we knew. But no-one knows his past anymore than we did.”

Illya nodded, “He looks vaguely familiar, but we all filled out on this rich English food. I might know him, of course.” He looked at Napoleon questioningly, “Do you wish for me to reveal myself to him, if I do? Tell him I used to know him, back in…wherever we met?”

Napoleon nodded, “It may bring you closer. Did you get offered a job there?” Illya nodded, moving through the adjoining door to his smaller cubby-hole. “Several. Billy will mention me there and I’ll know tomorrow.” There was rustling as he set about getting ready for bed, Napoleon following suit in his larger room.

“Night, then.”

Illya’s already-dozy voice came through the shut, unlocked door, “Goodnight.”

 

Billy must have had more standing than you would anticipate in an under-chef, for the message came through promptly at half-nine the next morning. Illya was out the front cleaning the car, having breakfasted downstairs before Napoleon, playing to the man of luxury, appeared. “Thanks Billy. I gave the Guv my notice last night, so I’ll just slip this note under his door. He weren’t too upset, dunno why. Them foreign folks are sure strange…” Billy gave him instructions for his arrival and said he looked forward to seeing him around, once Mr. Holmes had set him in whatever job would be his.

 

When Napoleon finally came down, having watched Illya ride away on a borrowed bicycle, he affected frustration but no surprise and set about looking at how to drive on the wrong side of the road. This caused some mirth, and plenty of distractions so no-one noticed the slight shift as Illya moved from chauffeur to talking with Mr. Holmes about becoming a secretary.

 

“You appear somewhat familiar.” There was certainly a trace of accent in that voice and Illya nodded, sweeping disheveled blonde hair- slightly dirty for this mission- back from his forehead. “You do too, sir. Was it…Russia?” he whispers the word, blue eyes looking hesitant, at the floor, back again. “I was in Russia for a time.” It’s an admission which sounds drawn out, Illya notes, as he adds, “You was in the kitchen, I remember now.”

 

Holmes looks at him. “How do I know you are talking the truth?” Illya shrugs, “I could speak Russian ter you? Or…I know!” He grins, the boyish grin that Holmes wouldn’t have seen in the kitchens he presided over, and says, “I was in them kitchens, sometimes, making things fer the boss. He used ter get me ter make ‘im a nice cup of summat ter drink. Milk, sometimes, if there was some.” He nods at the door, “’Ow bout I show you ‘ow I made it? It ain’t like ‘ow they make it ‘ere.”

 

Ten minutes later Illya is munching a substantial skin from the top of a mug of hot milk, not allowed to boil, and pottering around for anything to add to it. “We used ter always get the milk not quite boiling- remember? The skin we’d eat and it wouldn’t ‘ave been drunk by them important men if we’d not done so, so there’d never be any trouble.”

Holmes nods, shaking his head. “I remember. It is fortunate, to have someone who can feel what I am feeling. I see you have made yourself a life here?”

 

Illya shook his head sorrowfully, “I’ve tried. They shipped me out and then never wanted me back, so I went and got some work, but…” he gestures to the less-than-imposing clothes, “There’s no real close friends, here, or people I know at all, really. A job ‘ere would be just the ticket.”

 

He gets it, of course, and Holmes insists on feeding him up, dragging him round and showing off what he’s done, rattling away in rusty but eager Russian. Their past is never discussed, but every night Illya must serve Holmes a drink of hot milk, with the skin, which is given to Illya with a few words of thanks or advice or praise.

 

Meanwhile, Illya is in contact with Napoleon via communicator, assured there is no way of monitoring the signals from inside the room he sleeps in. As secretary he is picking up who is visiting and for what, a lot of the time. Napoleon then traces the visitors, meets them at the pub or elsewhere. When the news of ‘Ian’ being a Russian came to light in the pub one night, Billy announcing it gleefully to the owner, Napoleon made a row about it.

“Just goes to show they’re everywhere.” He mutters, then abuses the Russians more loudly at his usual table. The next day he is gone, refusing to spend time in a village with such people welcome.

 

He hasn’t gone really, just down the road, he’s still in daily contact with Illya, greets him the first time he talks to him with a two- minute apology, assurances he meant none of it. Illya sounds tired, “I know, it is your job. Now please stop and listen to this.”

He brings news of the shifting of goods, the removal of men, the packing up of shop. “Holmes says seeing me has reminded him of home. Fat chance. But still…you can get a team in here whenever; we’ve plenty to go on. Over a hundred contacts logged.”

Napoleon nods, “Yes. Is he working you hard?”

“It’s the way it is, Napoleon. Let me know when I’ll need to be of more use.”

There will be getting no more from him tonight, Napoleon knows, so merely grunts, “Solo out.”

 

Three days later, there’s a team of UNCLE agents hanging about, at the drop of a towel from Illya’s window they storm the building, finding Holmes sitting in his office, unaware of the danger.

It was so quick there are still papers hanging about, all the weaponry now taken over by UNCLE, the servants remanded for questioning. Illya is kept there too, amidst suggestions he is under the influence of some drug or other. He is not his usual testy, witty self. Withdrawn and sullen, he is instead looking exhausted, underfed and pulled in several directions at once. Napoleon is kept away from him, but two days later, released with Billy and various others who have proved their innocence, Illya is held tightly in a hug then driven to a remote house.

 

“I had to leave the pub, of course, thought this the best option.” Napoleon shrugs lightly, “That’s two pubs we won’t be welcome back in.” Illya half-heartedly smiles and heads to sleep, ignoring the offer of some food or a bath.

 

Eight hours later, they are seated on the porch on the step, watching the drizzle continue. “I am sorry, Napoleon. It was good for the first day, I convinced him I was the Illya of old, ready to take a step up in the world wherever I could, unattached.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow, “How’d you manage that?” His tone is low, gentle, and Illya responds to it, “It will sound silly. He used to be in one of the kitchens I used sometimes. There was a special way of heating milk we used to use, an art form I developed. How to make the biggest skin possible, to get the most milk possible, without anyone noticing.”

Napoleon wrinkled his nose, then changed his exclamation of surprise and shock to one of understanding, “Of course. The extra protein, or calcium or what have you. So he accepted you, then?”

Illya nodded, “Indeed. Took me round the place, into his confidence totally. He made me speak Russian with him, insisted on it, on changing all his documents even, so no-one snooping could read them as easily.” He shrugged, “Not many around here would recognize the language, I guess.”

 

Napoleon, knowing he wouldn’t be able to read any of the documents, rested his hands on his knees, “Did he do anything to you?”

Illya nodded, “It was always cold, in the kitchen was the only warm spot, but he was so used to it he needed more warmth. At the time I was…unwell. We had an arrangement- I could remain in the kitchen so long as I did what he said. He told me, about a week ago, those were the best nights of his life, insisted we re-enact them.” Illya looked out across the grass, “A week of very little sleep, little food- he said I was too fat- it has made me weary, Napoleon.”

 

A gentle arm, warm but undemanding came around him, “That’s alright, Illya. We have to head back once everything is tidied up, there’s no set time for our flights. We’ll have a couple days here, in an actual city, feed you up, get you rested.” He didn’t mention anything more personal than that and Illya, knowing he wouldn’t have, rested his own hand on his partners’ knee. “It was your birthday as well. We shall celebrate that.”

Napoleon’s large grin showed this was a good idea by him; Illya’s suggestion to leave at once was met with a searching glance but a nod. “We’re only three days late.”

 

On their return to their office, they were greeted at the canteen by a large banner proclaiming, “Happy Birthday Napoleon!” Everyone seemed to be there, offering gifts and food, condolences it was such a late birthday celebration.

Illya, standing behind Napoleon, sniffed. “What?”

The Russian gave an enigmatic shrug of the shoulders, “I do not understand this predilection for birthday celebrations.”

Napoleon, turning his back on two very charming ladies, attempted to answer the problem, “I did not understand your predilection for milk skin. However for you it signifies…sustenance, something that provides you with good memories, perhaps?” Illya nodded grudgingly.

“It is the same with Birthdays, for me. I like them. I like people, I like food, I like presents…” The girls had disappeared and Napoleon added, cunningly, “I notice you didn’t get me one, as you said you would.”

Illya raised a shoulder, “You have everything you need, and most things you want.”

 

Napoleon would have chased him up on that but Terri, from translations, bowled into him and started gabbling away at Napoleon, shooing Illya out of hearing.

 

It wasn’t until much later the two found themselves together, in a secluded corner by a pot-plant. “What do you mean; I have almost everything I want?”

Illya took a deep breath, “You lack a lasting relationship.”


End file.
